Palimpsest

when time is delicately sponging sum after sum memory after memory from the neatening blackness of my mind and i am not exactly old, (but Spring is Plunging in the big absurd world with a difference) and when the mauled flower of your mouth is old and cold and bold I think (excuse me if i speak the truth) you will be yellow and sick for me (your mouth and the rest of you whatever that is, i suppose breasts and throat, legs and hands.) Lady in that day i think (it's only thinking. Your pardon if I err.) i think you will be tired of telling me and my dreams to go to hell -e.e. cummings

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the shards too small remained after the crash (redundant sweeping tide)
brittle half self, edged diamond
store in a forsaken drawer leisurely years passing
all chance at reconstruction lost, former now
unrecognizable